The Romance of jasmine banks

Spotlights illuminate only her in jasmine banks. Completely naked on a velvet pedestal, she becomes the exhibit. Slow strokes over hard nipples, down flat stomach, to slick folds. “They all want jasmine banks,” she purrs to the empty room, sliding three fingers inside while the fourth circles her clit. Security cameras record every moan of “jasmine banks… look at jasmine banks… worship jasmine banks.” Her hips roll like brushstrokes, faster, wetter, louder, until the masterpiece finishes—she squirts across the marble floor in shining ropes, screaming “jasmine banks!” as the gallery echoes with her name again and again.